


The Dream of Sleep

by Quarra



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, Insomnia Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Non-explicit Referenced Hydra Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleepy Cuddles, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10053488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarra/pseuds/Quarra
Summary: Bucky muses on all the reasons he can't sleep and the one thing that makes it not so bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having a lot of insomnia feels, so this is where that went. Trigger warnings abound for very dark thoughts, non-explicit references to self-harm and violence to others, and mildly explicit references to suicide. This little story does end on a not-so-bad note, but but read with caution if this stuff is troubling for you.

Bucky was so tired he wanted to vomit. It had been days and days since he’d had more than a few minutes of sleep a night. It wasn’t even the nightmares. Well. It wasn’t _only_ the nightmares. 

There were nights were he just couldn’t settle; where he would endlessly patrol Steve’s Brooklyn apartment. He felt like a ghost those nights. His mind _hurt_. It was foggy and thick and remembering anything felt like digging through crystalized honey. A restless buzzing lived under his skin; laying down provoked it, stand up and move and it disappeared. So he roamed, eyes alert for danger that was unlikely to ever show up. The skills Hydra gave him were so engrained that he didn’t need sleep to use them; it was hardwired in to be deadly and dangerous.

He was so tired.

Then there were the nights where he just hurt too damn much to sleep. When he was awake he could ignore the pain; like a bird singing outside or a moth hitting the bulb above him. It was there, he knew it was there, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to think about it. But as soon as he tried to rest, the ache in his bones and his blood and his brain came to the foreground. When there was nothing else to distract him from it, the pain was all he could feel. It wasn’t like it was even bad pain, on the grand scale of things. Bucky had endured far worse. Frequently. It just became impossible to ignore when his mind was trying to shut down. 

It’s not like he could take pain killer, either. Even if the idea of being on some kind of drug didn’t give him the shakes and make him think of the taste of rubber and the smell of ozone (which it did), the bastardized serum that he was jacked up on made it nearly impossible for pain killers to last for any meaningful amount of time. 

Not like Hydra ever bothered with pain killers per-say. Mostly they used other things. Bucky tried very hard not to think about it.

There were also nights where he just plain couldn’t sleep. No bad thoughts, no (or minimal) pain, no restlessness. Nothing. Sleep just wouldn’t come. 

Sam once told him that getting to sleep was a skill that one had to learn. That’s one of the reasons babies get so upset when they’re tired; they want to sleep, they just don’t know how to get there and it makes them irate. 

Bucky could sympathize. 

After all those years with Hydra, it really wasn’t much of a shock that Bucky had lost the knack for getting to sleep. Sleep was for humans, and for so long he was just a weapon. Pack it up, take it out, do the job, clean it off, shove it in storage. The Asset had no use for sleep. If the mission ran long enough, he just went without. 

Bucky was so goddamn tired.

Then there were then nights that were filled with fear. It didn’t matter that Hydra was gone, that he had escaped them, that he was safe with Steve, that he was _free_. They were always right there with him, in his mind. Every shadow held the cold dark cells he was sometimes shoved into. Every pregnant silence was the calm before the torture’s blade touched his skin. Every distant sound was the inevitable return of another Strike Team sent to bring him back into the fold.

There were nights where all he could do was shake from the fear of it.

And then, of course, there were the nightmares. On the sad, rare, evenings where his body simply ran out of its ability to continue on, sleep held no peace for him. He stayed unconscious only as long as his exhaustion overpowered his body’s ability to adrenalize him back awake again, driven up again by the echo of screaming and blood and pain.

Some nights it left him pacing the room, heart pounding and ready to fight. Other nights it left him a shivering mess, unblinking eyes leaking tears and huddled as far into a corner as he could possibly go. 

Those nights weren’t so bad. 

The bad nights were ones where Bucky forgot where he was, forgot who he was with. The nights were he woke up and everything around him was an enemy. 

It was those nights that made Bucky wish Steve would just put him down like a rabid animal. He hated hurting Steve, and on those nights he often did. 

If they were both lucky, it was only an easily dodged swing or two before reality reasserted itself. 

Bucky didn’t like to think about the nights where they weren’t lucky.

Those were the nights he burned with shame and guilt and misery, the nights where he starts to wonder just how much damage he would have to take before he’d bleed out.

There are times where he’d take the bullet to his head if it would only guarantee him some rest.

He doesn’t tell Steve about those terrible musings. He’s pretty sure Steve knows anyways.

Through every one of these nights, from quiet to loud, peaceful and violent, Steve has been there; an endless fount of caring and compassion. Bucky marvels at it.

There was a time Bucky wondered what he had ever done to deserve what Hydra did to him. Then there was a very long time where he wondered nothing; his mind held only dread and suffering. Now he wonders what he ever did to deserve Steve’s unwavering faith and love.

He doesn’t deserve it, shouldn’t have it, no matter what Steve says. 

Bucky is just _so fucking tired_.

And then there were nights like tonight. Nights where Steve’s eyes crinkled a little at Bucky’s general air of disarray, where he quirked a smile, and then patted the couch next to him. Nights where Bucky sat curled up on top of Steve, cradled in his arms, and lulled by the sound of his heart beat. There was the glorious feeling of Steve’s hand in his hair. He never knew that being gently petted could feel so good.

Nights like tonight, Bucky just drifted, caught up in the comfort around him. He felt cared for. Cherished, even.

It wasn’t as good as sleep, but it was close.


End file.
